


Down the Gullet

by TamingAlice



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Historical, Historical References, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:32:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TamingAlice/pseuds/TamingAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You aren't making things better, you aren't getting things done; you're just escaping from reality." Francis quirks a brow, retorting darkly, "Is that such a bad thing?" Arthur-centric; Alcoholism fic. FrUk, UsUk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down the Gullet

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

His first taste is not voluntary.

Green eyes are wide as he studies the scene before him. His brothers are seated around a small, wooden table in the middle of the tavern, all sipping (or chugging) the drinks before them.

 _'Why do they have to be here?'_ Arthur thinks, tugging up his hood and heading for the door surreptitiously, _'I'll just have to go elsewhere.'_

Arthur's original intent was to come in for a bite to eat, but the sight of his siblings is all it takes to drive him away: the other nations have surely come to his lands only to harass him, and he wants nothing of the sort.

But, of course, luck does not often favor him.

" _Oi_ , brat!" Ireland's rough voice calls out, undoubtedly referring to Arthur. He sighs in disappointment, turning and slowly making his way towards his brothers.

If he ran they would have chased him, Arthur is certain.

A chair is dragged over from the table beside theirs, his Scottish neighbor grinning wickedly as he pats the wooden seat, "Come on ova', brat."

The third member of the group is silent, offering Arthur a distinctly indifferent look as he sets down his quart. Unfortunately, Ireland does not share Wales's lack of feeling towards Arthur, glowering openly as he takes a long draught of his beverage.

"We're not gonna' pummel ya' here, brat." Scotland informs him casually. Arthur's relieved expression is met with a dark grin, "But yer gonna' have to amuse us."

Ireland seems as if he wants to protest the unusual mercy they are showing him (the Celt's dislike of him has tripled as a result of English influence in his country), but it seems as if his mouth is kept shut by the implications of Scotland's statement. Arthur's stomach clenches, expression clearly frightened as he waits for Scotland to continue.

Even Wales seems intrigued, staring expectantly at Scotland until he ends their anticipation, "I just want ya' to empty this-" He gestures at the full mug before him, which was presumably supposed to be his after he finished his current drink, "-real quick."

A bark of laughter escapes Ireland's lips, blue eyes staring intently at Arthur, who is more than a bit worried by his reaction. Wales has lost interest, returning to his previous occupation (staring blankly into his drink), and Scotland hands him the quart, watching Arthur almost as apprehensively as Ireland is. Arthur takes the flask without complaint, pushing away any suspicions he may have and deciding just to be thankful that they are being this kind. He examines the liquid curiously, noting its brownish color and the frothiness on its surface, and chances a brief glance at his brothers before tipping the mug back and beginning to gulp down the drink.

He feels a bit light-headed when he sets the glass down, looking to Scotland for permission to leave, and smiles dazedly as the man waves him off. Arthur's legs tremble as he rises, and he sways dangerously as he departs, his brothers laughing all the while.

Arthur wakes up with a terrible pain in his head, unable to remember how he wound up in his bed.

* * *

The second time he drinks to prove himself.

France's eyes are triumphant as he stands over the defeated English nation, a gauntlet of wine in hand; his people have successfully invaded Arthur's land, and the French shall reign over England.

"You are _quite_ the feisty little thing, _mon petit_." France muses aloud, taking a swig of his wine and rubbing gingerly at the bruise on his jaw, "But your people's ferocity did not win them this conflict."

Green eyes flash at France's words, Arthur retorting bitingly, "If I am so _little_ , how did I manage to wound you and put up such a fight?" A scowl, "And stop saying things in your idiotic language."

"Children can lash out." France says dismissively, "You are not much younger than I; the differences between us are best shown by our demeanors and cultural experiences." More of the liquid is ingested, a sneer on his lips as he asks, "Have you ever tasted wine, _child_?"

Arthur grits his teeth, snarling at his conqueror, "Give me some."

France taunts him until he drains the bottle.

* * *

The third time is to dull the pain.

 _'My people are dying, my people are dying, my people are dying.'_ The chant runs through his mind, sickening him with its honesty. His people are dying in droves. Arthur cannot walk outside without his eyes lighting upon a corpse; so many have passed and just as many are still passing away, _'Am I dying? Is this what death feels like?'_

Arthur, now sixteen or so in appearance, has not left the safety _(Is there such a thing?)_ of his home for several days, nor does he intend to, but his reluctance to be in the presence of the aforementioned cadavers is not the reason.

The pestilence has taken ahold of him; if he were to exit his lodgings he would endanger, and possibly kill, anyone who would come into contact with him.

His own ailment has not bothered him at all: compared to the stabs of agony he feels constantly, his own aches do not even register. However, Arthur thinks he may have found a solution to this problem; before he enclosed himself in his home, Arthur had roamed the streets of London, offering his assistance to grave-diggers and pulling carts filled with the dead, and he stumbled upon something _very_ interesting.

Arthur had been accompanied by a graying man with the unmistakable smell of alcohol surrounding him, and he noticed that as they wheeled the cart around the man continued to drink from a flask. After a time, a mix of curiosity and concern led to him ask why the man was consuming so much of the beverage.

_"My wife is dead." The peasant replies, taking another swig, "My children are dead." He laughs dryly, "This is the only thing keeping me sane."_

_Arthur can't feel anything but the wretched pain that the deaths are causing, and this piques his interest, so he asks, "How so?"_

_"I'm numb to the world." The man explains, "None of that matters."_

With that in mind, the pale teen reaches out, his fingers wrapping around the neck of the open bottle and bringing the liquor-filled container to his lips. He tilts his head back and allows the liquid to run down his gullet, welcoming the sensations he is imposing upon himself.

Sweet oblivion greets him at the bottom of the bottle.

* * *

Arthur finds solace when he drinks.

This war with France (and Scotland), although inconsistent, carries on after years of fighting, and he's tired of it. The fatalities suffered by his soldiers combined with the deaths caused by the plague have numbed him to death, and although the disease is far less prevalent than it was, it still takes the lives of many.

 _Too many_.

Arthur thought that his people were free of this pestilence; it had receded for a time, and its return was completely unexpected.

He doesn't feel safe: Arthur no longer fears that the death of so many of his people will kill him, but he is still surrounded by unfriendly nations, and that is why he opens his trunk and pours himself a mug of ale.

* * *

Pretending is far easier when he's drunk.

"Everything's fine, everything's fine." Arthur murmurs consolingly, patting a small rabbit on the head as he reclines against an oak tree, "No need to worry: everything's fine."

There's no fighting going on, his nobles aren't warring over the throne, he is not at war with himself. It's just he and the small creature in his arms, lounging around on a pleasant evening and enjoying themselves.

Green eyes are hazy as he clutches the animal to his breast, stroking its fur roughly as it squirms in his arms. His grip tightens when the rabbit attempts to flee, a displeased frown replacing his distanced smile for a moment before the brighter expression returns.

The rabbit ceases its struggling after a few moments, although it remains rigid and is obviously afraid, but Arthur pays it no mind. His thoughts are on the roses, the roses that he no longer adores because of how they have tormented him, the roses that he doesn't like at all.

White or red, they ask; but why does he need roses at all?

A small amount of pain is briefly registered, and Arthur looks down to find that his friend the rabbit has bitten him. The wound is small, and a bit of blood trickles from it. No longer happy with the beast, Arthur opens his arms and allows it to leave, a pout on his face at the sight of the red (like a rose, he thinks) liquid.

The rabbit has betrayed him, just as he has betrayed himself.

* * *

For the first time he is toasting, an adult nation (still young, but certainly not a teen anymore) celebrating the coronation of his newest leader.

Elizabeth smiles at him, the crown glistening atop her head as she silently conveys this message: _I am going to make you great._

Arthur believes her, believes that this woman, who possesses such cunning and intelligence, can fix the problems between his people; she will make sure that all is right in his country, and then she will show the world the might of the English.

He has no doubt in his mind of it.

* * *

Arthur takes a long swig out of his bottle of rum, laughing uproariously with his crew as they celebrate the defeat of those thrice-damned Spaniards.

"Wha' did tha' soddin' bastard call 'is lil' fleet?" The privateer wonders aloud for a moment, smirking viciously when he recalls the term, "An _armada!_ Those ships were more like bloody _toys_!"

His men guffaw at that, all of them bending over and some of them sloshing their liquor around, until finally his first mate cries out, "To the Captain!" and raises his drink. The others do the same, repeating this cry and drinking in honor of their feared and respected leader.

Arthur staggers to his feet, placing his discarded hat back on his head before turning, calling over his shoulder as he departs, "I'm downrigh' pissed; headin' back to the ship."

A chorus of drunken farewells answer him, informing him that his fellow privateers are either going to continue their drinking games or head out in search of company. Arthur continues towards his destination, unaffected by their decisions.

The walk to his vessel is brief, lanterns illuminating his path as he swaggers down the road. A fond smile takes up residence on his face as he beholds his floating home; the _Siren_ has always evoked great joy in him, it is his chariot on the seas, the doorway to the vast and beauteous oceans, the key to his success.

It is all that he has.

His smile wavers, thinking of the allies that he does not have and the friends that he lacks. He plasters on a cocky expression, his eyes belying his loneliness as he thinks, _'I don' need any of 'em; I don' need any one_.' He boards the ship, sighing desolately as he admits the truth _'I don' 'ave anyone.'_

Arthur enters his cabin, heading immediately towards his liquor trunk and rifling through it for a few moments before discovering what he is searching for. He uncorks the bottle of rum hurriedly, taking a shallow breath before bringing the opening to his lips and beginning to drink.

In the morning he will not remember this; he will not recall the self-pity or the ache he feels, he will not have any recollection of the pained thoughts that run through his mind.

But they come back, regardless of how much Arthur drinks.

They always do.

* * *

"Everything is falling apart." Arthur says in an unsteady voice, cradling the bottle of wine (the second one he has laid his hands on tonight) in one arm.

Francis is visibly shocked by his presence, and stares at him for a moment, still standing in the doorway, before asking, puzzled, "Has something happened?"

Emerald eyes, clearly troubled, meet azure orbs, "Elizabeth is dead; a Scottish king shall rule over my people." Arthur stops there, but the unsaid _"I need you"_ hangs between them.

As always, Francis understands.

He steps aside, allowing Arthur to enter before shutting the door behind him. Francis takes the offering silently, exiting the room (presumably to fetch glasses) and leaving Arthur alone. He does not bother to direct Arthur to the sitting room.

It matters not: Arthur has been in hisFrancis's home enough times to have memorized its layout.

Removing his light cloak with fumbling hands, Arthur drapes the garment over the large couch, seating himself and waiting impatiently for his enemy's return. Even in this state he can appreciate the irony of this situation: he, the personification of England, is looking to the personification of France, his greatest foe, for comfort.

But perhaps there is more to their relationship than a feud that has lasted for centuries.

Even whilst inebriated, Arthur identifies the danger presented by this train of thought, and focuses on something entirely different, pushing the traitorous feelings to the back of his mind as Francis enters the room, two glasses full of wine in hand.

Arthur accepts a glass with a quiet murmur of his thanks, focusing on the liquid before him as Francis settles into the spot beside him. A moment of silence elapses, and, realizing that Francis expects him to begin speaking, he takes a gulp of his drink and begins, "She passed several days ago, and with no heir the throne was passed onto Scotland's king."

Francis doesn't seem to understand, his eyebrows furrowing as he inquires, "Was he not an ally of yours?"

"Yes," Arthur nods tensely, elaborating before Francis can cut in, "But my people do not want a Scot as their leader." Arthur continues, voice low, "And I can't imagine what Ireland must be thinking."

"I see." Francis's handsome features are contemplative, and he pauses briefly before stating, "If it makes you feel much better, my people fight amongst each other based solely on their different religious views."

Arthur glares at him, "Why in the world would you think that such a thing would make me feel better?" Arthur can feel the air crackling in between them, heat rushing to his groin, "Why do you always worsen things?" Arthur sets his empty glass aside, knees pointing towards Francis as he snaps, only for the theatrics of it all, "It seems as if that is all you can do, Frog!"

Francis clenches his jaw, putting his own container (also devoid of any liquid) on the floor, and retorts haughtily, "Why is it that you do not understand that I was merely attempting to ease your worries?" He scoots closer to Arthur, turning so that their faces are only inches apart, and the look in his eyes shows Arthur how much he is enjoying this game of theirs, "You are anything _but_ sweet-tempered, _pirate_!"

Emerald eyes flash at the term, and he responds irately, "I am _not_ a pira-"

Slightly chapped lips are pressed onto his own, swallowing Arthur's words. Arthur's eyes flutter shut as he ceases his act, falling back onto the couch with Francis on top of him. His hands quickly become entangled in golden tresses, a moan issuing from his lips as Francis's hand slips under his shirt and pinches one of his nipples. Wasting no time, Francis's tongue sweeps into Arthur's mouth, lips curving upwards at the pleased sounds his actions incite.

Francis breaks away, remarking softly, "I wonder, will you remember this in the morning?"

"What led you to think that I ever forget?" Arthur replies breathlessly, kissing Francis again.

Arthur doesn't say that Francis is the only one he's ever been with, that his neighbor means much more to him than he lets on, that he may have feelings for him.

He doesn't even admit it to himself.

* * *

Arthur stops drinking for Alfred; not completely, but he remains sober whenever he is visiting him.

His dear colony is so innocent, not having experienced any of the horrors that the Europeans have, and Arthur wishes for him to remain this way: Alfred is his charge now, and Arthur does not want him to endure such hardships.

Having an enjoyable childhood is just about impossible when alcohol is added into the mix, which Arthur knows very well. So he, with this in mind, very painstakingly weans himself off of the drink.

 _'The little brat better be worth it.'_ He thinks sourly, the pain in his head worse than ever.

But then Alfred enters the room, smiling widely at the sight of Arthur, and laughs jubilantly as he runs into the man's arms. A surprised gasp is torn from Arthur's lips as Alfred situates himself on his lap, the child's adoring gaze settling on him as he greets Arthur excitedly.

"Arthur, I missed you!" Alfred cries, short arms wrapping around his neck.

Stunned, Arthur returns the hug, a small smile revealing itself as he answers quietly, "I missed you too, love."

 _'This child is most definitely worth the pain.'_ He thinks.

* * *

Charles is beheaded on the thirtieth of January.

Arthur can only watch, numbly taking in the sights before him. Parliament's army has finally defeated the king's forces and deemed it necessary to slay the fool after he was captured.

Perhaps he shouldn't have fled the first time he came into captivity, perhaps he shouldn't have infuriated Parliament and caused this idiotic conflict; he's the one who ruined things, he is the one who tore Arthur apart.

Arthur's grip tightens on his bottle of rum (it's good rum, rum from when Elizabeth ruled, rum from better times), his gaze unfocused as he watches two men lead his former ruler to his death ( _just as you led me to ruin_ ). They prepare him swiftly, sparing no time, and the fallen leader's head bids his body farewell after the third or fourth attempt ( _suffer, suffer, suffer_ ).

Arthur spits on his grave.

* * *

It is the first time his habit has come back to haunt him.

His heart is burning, his dear London is being blazed down by those horrid, awful, _searing_ flames, and Arthur barely makes it outside in time to save himself from what would surely be a terrible death (he is already being roasted internally, he would prefer not to endure the agony of being burned alive on top of that). His home is destroyed by the fire, and his stash of liquor only contributes to the destruction: the alcoholic beverages set off a mild explosion that deafen Arthur, who stumbles into the streets, deaf and incoherent.

The people are frantic; they are panicked and disordered and it seems like no one knows what to do. The heat is unbearable, and the smoke chokes him, but Arthur works through his pain and discomfort, picking up a pail with the intent of taking part in the efforts made to quash the fires.

But it's all too much to bear.

The bucket slips from his hands, water sloshing over the sides as Arthur collapses, overcome by the anguish he is experiencing.

He awakens, nude, in a pile of ashes and debris, and is glad that he was spared from the torture that would have accompanied his death had he been conscious. Arthur bolts to his feet as a thought pervades his mind, dashing away from the remnants of this sector of London. He runs, his heart pounding madly in his ears and an uneasy feeling manifesting itself in the pit of his stomach. Arthur ignores the pain and the discomfort, not coming to a halt until there is green under his feet.

Arthur falls to his knees, emptying his stomach and hoping that he was not just lying in the ashes of his people, but the sickness he feels tells him he was.

In the distance, the fire continues to rage.

* * *

He visits Alfred in 1670, four years after the Great Fire charred his heart.

Alfred has become rather dear to him over the years; they have only seen each other a handful of times due to the difficulty Arthur has visiting, but they have maintained a steady correspondence and Arthur is delighted to _finally_ be in contact with someone who has no ill feelings towards him.

Alfred's growth is the first thing Arthur takes note of, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in the sight of his charge, who appears to be ten or so, as opposed to the five years Alfred could have claimed the last time they met. The second thing that comes to his attention is Alfred's eagerness to please him, which is certainly flattering: no one has ever been so happy to make him proud, and the thought that Alfred cares about his opinion enough to do so warms him.

"I'd like to show you the garden next, Arthur!" Alfred calls over his shoulder, leading his guest outside, where lilies dominate the flowers planted, "You prefer lilies, is that right?"

Arthur doesn't think once about alcohol during his stay.

* * *

"Why must you always interfere in my affairs, France?" Arthur asks, setting a bottle of wine on a table located near the entrance as he sweeps inside, brushing past an unsurprised Francis.

Francis closes the door quietly, pressing himself against Arthur, who struggles half-heartedly, as he mutters, "It is in my interest to have the Stuarts rule over your country."

Arthur glares at him, shoving Francis roughly before being pulled back into his embrace. Arthur doesn't look pleased, but he doesn't back away, instead snapping, "Yes, over _my_ country, which is exactly why you should not be concerned."

Azure eyes are unmistakably sincere as Francis replies, "I am always concerned when you are involved, England." Arthur tries to fight down the blush that is rising to his cheeks, "My greatest enemy..."

 _"My greatest love._ " Francis finishes silently, his expression revealing everything.

Arthur seals their lips together, green eyes closed as he loses himself in Francis, his addictive, sweet, twisted love.

"One day it will not be like this." Francis assures him afterwards, sipping pensively at his wine, "We will not always be at odds."

Arthur stares thoughtfully into his own glass, hoping that Francis's words are true.

* * *

" _Francis!_ " Matthieu cries out, trying desperately to escape from Arthur's grasp.

Arthur frowns at this, reminded of his own charge, and loosens his grip on the boy's collar slightly as he continues to lead Matthieu to his camp. The child will be his regardless of what transpires next, which is something that Arthur isn't sure how he feels about.

Regardless of his own wishes, despite his feelings about this, Arthur will have to take the boy from Francis; it's a daunting reminder of how powerless he truly is.

Matthieu has given up, a dejected look in place as he obediently trudges along. The sight is a saddening one, tugging at Arthur's heartstrings and deepening his guilt.

"I'm sorry." He says remorsefully, refusing to meet Matthieu's befuddled gaze, "I have to do this."

 _'Francis will_ never _forgive me.'_

The thought plagues him.

They finally reach his troops, Arthur pushing his captive forward and delivering stern instructions, "Watch over him. He is not to be harmed and he is to be treated as an esteemed officer would be."

The officer nods in understanding, taking Matthieu by the shoulders and beginning to walk away.

"Wait!" Arthur calls out, continuing in a sharp tone when the man turns, "I am not to be disturbed."

He can't drink the guilt away; there isn't enough liquor in the world.

* * *

"You _bastard_!" Arthur screams, hurling the bottle of wine at Francis the moment the door opens, "You know I didn't want to take Matthew! You, of all people, should understand!" Francis, having successfully avoided the projectile, glowers, but allows his enemy to enter, slamming the door shut, "He was the only person I could trust!"

Francis whips around to face him, looking more furious than Arthur has ever seen him, and hisses, "His name is _Matthieu,_ and what do you think he was to me, _Angleterre_?" He laughs harshly, azure eyes frosty, "I have had you, yes, and in more ways than one-" Arthur snarls at this, clenching his fists, "-and I have had allies, but I have _never_ been able to ensure that I would not be betrayed by you, or by them." A bit of his ire subsides, and Francis laughs again, this time bitterly, "I cannot even trust the one I love."

They both freeze at that; never before had they spoken words of love to one another, they had always danced around a declaration, fearing the power of those feelings.

Francis has broken the taboo, he has said what was not meant to be said.

Emerald eyes convey longing and deep sorrow, something about this telling Arthur that this moment marks the beginning of the end of _whatever_ they were. Arthur sighs, calmed in the worst way (by the harshness of reality), and says, "We are pitted against one another far too often to be..."

"Lovers." Francis finishes, done with leaving things unsaid. He runs a tired hand through his hair, confirming his intentions gently, "I'm going to support him; he's going to gain his independence."

Arthur's heart sinks at the words, emerald eyes focusing on his hands as he repeats, "I didn't want to take him from you."

Francis smiles sourly, "I know."

He invites him to stay for a glass of wine; Arthur declines.

* * *

Matthew is unsympathetic when Arthur returns from the war, downtrodden and hurt.

"He wasn't happy under your rule, England." Is the cutting reminder.

Emerald eyes flash, Arthur shooting his colony a scalding look before retreating to his quarters.

It seems that nowadays all he does is lose things: his lover and his most treasured colony have abandoned him. He has nothing now, nothing but this empire that is not even his to rule, a slew of memories that make him despondent, and a large supply of liquor.

The third seems to be the only thing that can console him at the moment, and Arthur knows from experience that it is a particularly successful method.

_You used to be so big._

"What am I now?" Arthur mumbles to himself, gulping down more whiskey, "What have I become?"

"Drunkard." Matthew whispers harshly the next morning, wrenching the empty bottle Arthur's hands with a displeased expression in place.

 _'Is that what I am?'_ Arthur considers, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to block out the sunlight, _'A pitiful drunkard?'_

He gags suddenly, leaning over the edge of the bed and vomiting. The look Matthew gives him when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand confirms his suspicions, and Arthur can't help but note that Matthew seems to have gained Francis's sharpness.

The thought only serves to make him more miserable.

* * *

The march through Paris is torture; the people cheer for them, and they have won this war, but Arthur's thoughts are consumed by Francis.

He hasn't slept with, or even spoken much, with his former lover for years now, but he has loved Francis for centuries and Arthur is well aware that it will take time for him to let go of the first man he ever loved. Napoleon has fled the French capitol, and the combined forces of Prussia, Russia, Austria-Hungary, and his own country have defeated the once feared French Empire. Once the pseudo-parade is over and done with they will have to go find Francis, which is the only thing of concern to Arthur.

"I'm goin' to punch that bastard right in the face when I get a hold of him." Gilbert remarks from beside him, a murderous look on his face, "Maybe then he'll stay away from my _bruder._ "

Arthur scowls at that, replying crossly, "Leave him be: you're well aware that he played no part in this affair." He bristles at the astonished look the Prussian displays, "Our governments are in control. We are not."

They reach the banks of the Seine and the crowds disperse, allowing the nations to go off in search of their enemy, the conqueror of Europe. Arthur leads the party, knowing Francis better than any of them, directing his horse towards a forested area not far from the city.

It is there that they find Francis, leaning against a tree with his head in between his knees. It seems that he is aware of their presence, seeing as he begins to speak when they have all entered the clearing, although he does not raise his head, "You are here to capture me."

There is no lack of certainty in Francis's statement, the resigned tone of his voice making Arthur grimace. He steps forward, ready to answer him, but is intercepted by one of his allies.

Russia smiles childishly, his eyes malicious as he hoists Francis, who does not bother to struggle, over his shoulder. There's a deceptively pleasant lilt in his voice as he remarks, "You're quite intelligent, aren't you?" His smile becomes strained, but his voice remains light, "I wonder why such a _clever_ man would dare to attack me." His grip tightens around Francis's midsection, earning a barely audible grunt, and Arthur grits his teeth, "It doesn't seem like the brightest idea."

Arthur interrupts before Russia loses his cool, glancing irately at Austria and Gilbert before cutting in, "It wasn't his choice, Russia: none of us have the power to make such decisions, only our governments do."

The northern nation is placated, a thoughtful hum escaping him as he sets Francis down, allowing him to move forward on his own. They return to the city, Arthur trying, and failing, to prevent himself from seeking out the Frenchman's eyes.

Emerald eyes are apologetic.

Azure eyes are understanding.

During the celebrations, when everyone is taking part in the merrymaking and his men are too busy with their drinks to be very interested in him, Arthur nicks two bottles of wine and steals off to the dungeon where Francis is being kept.

"I didn't think you would come." Francis admits, accepting a bottle with a grateful nod, "I hoped you would, but I was not certain."

Arthur settles down next to the prisoner, informing him frankly, "I always come to your side." Arthur doesn't hesitate to make an admission, staring into Francis's eyes as he does so, "I always will." Green eyes shift their focus elsewhere as he adds, "Regardless of the state of our relationship."

There is a brief lull in their conversation.

"I have never had a dearer friend than you." Francis shares, tongue loosened by Arthur's honesty. He takes a swig of his wine, neglecting the rules of etiquette he had been taught ages ago, "I never will."

Arthur smiles fondly at him, his lingering discomfort ebbing away, "I couldn't have said it better myself."

They toast to confidantes and unbreakable bonds.

* * *

"You are nothing but a foolish, ignorant _child_." Arthur spits, just about ready to engage in a brawl with Alfred, "Were you so desperate for my attention that you needed to attack Matthew?"

Alfred shrugs, replying snidely, "He is a part of your _empire_ , is he not?" Paying no mind to Arthur's murderous look, he continues, "The impressment of my men by your sailors was not something that I was willing to overlook."

Arthur takes a deep breath, reminding himself that there are important government officials just outside, and says evenly, "My navy needed men to fight the French: they were wreaking havoc in Europe, if you hadn't noticed."

"You Europeans are always fighting about something." Alfred counters dismissively, a riled up expression in place as he carries on, "Which is why _Canada_ was fighting a war that I declared against _you_."

Arthur's hand drifts down to his waistband, groping about for a moment before he remembers that he no longer keeps a pistol at hand. Arthur suppresses a groan at his inability to pistol whip the arse, instead correcting Alfred, "You declared war against my _empire_ , you imbecile." The look of affront on Alfred's face incites a smirk, "I had more important things to attend to, but I made sure to participate in the end, didn't I?" A sickly expression wins out its predecessor as Alfred pales, quieting for once, "I'm sure you haven't forgotten."

Alfred's hand twitches, as if itching to settle over his heart, where there is surely a burn mark, but he manages to control the urge. He glances towards the door ( _eager to get away, I'm sure_ ) but does not make a move to leave, standing his ground. Arthur admires his resolve, although begrudgingly, but that does not lessen his choler.

"Why would you do that to me?" Alfred asks after a moment, voice laced with resentment and hurt ( _You're the one who started this war, Alfred_ ).

Arthur fights down his guilt, refusing to meet those sky blue eyes as he reminds him, "You did the same to Matthew." Alfred still looks a bit betrayed ( _Do you remember when_ you _betrayed_ me _?_ ), so Arthur furthers his point, "Twice."

That silences Alfred effectively.

Arthur tarries for a moment longer despite his feeling that the discussion has ended. He _is_ upset by Alfred's actions and he _is_ enraged by Alfred's gall, but it's still nice to see him after so long. Arthur never ceased caring for Alfred and finds himself missing his companionship, but it seems that Alfred has outgrown him.

He turns to leave, and is in the midst of twisting the door knob when Alfred calls out to him. Arthur turns, asking tiredly, "What, America?"

Alfred opens his mouth to answer him but falters, muttering softly, "Nevermind."

Arthur gazes suspiciously at Alfred, wondering what it was that he wanted to say, but does not press the matter, exiting without another word.

* * *

Alfred looks terrible; his eyes, with heavy bags underneath them, are dull, his spectacles askew, his dress completely out of order. He is huddled in the corner of the room, entangled in the sheets of his bed, and says nothing when Arthur enters, only watching him mutely.

For a moment, Arthur wants nothing more than to turn and leave. He doesn't want to see Alfred like this, he doesn't want to see him broken. But he can't go, because he's already made the long journey and this is partly his fault: he _has_ to stay and care for Alfred.

"I'm sorry I helped them in the beginning." Arthur whispers ashamedly, well aware that Alfred can hear him, "I didn't _want_ to: it was my government, I swear to you!" He takes a seat on the edge of the wounded man's bed, regaining his composure before addressing Alfred, "I've had a civil war-two, actually-" Arthur takes a shuddering breath, "It will be a while before things return to normal, and even then you will never see things the same way-do you know why I don't like roses?" Arthur stares at his hands, imagining them stained with blood, "The houses of Lancaster and York had roses as their symbols: their fighting drove me mad for a time." He represses the urge to look back and check the bandages around Alfred's middle, "And Charles the first did the same." Turning, Arthur scoots further up the bed, leaning against the headboard with about a foot of space between he and Alfred, "It may seem awful now, and it is." He sighs, reassuring Alfred quietly, "But you're strong, and I know that you'll recover."

Arthur lapses into silence, not expecting a response from Alfred, who is undoubtedly shaken; he is taken by surprise when the American croaks out a reply.

"Thank you."

Arthur is too startled to answer him, and when Alfred takes his hand he is even more stunned.

He doesn't pull away.

* * *

"We're going to die here." Arthur states, no doubt in his voice as he drops into the trench, "We're going to die countless times: they will be horrid deaths, deaths without honor."

Francis isn't perturbed at all (or at least he pretends not to be), loading his gun quickly and holding it in a prepared stance, "We've died before, Arthur." He smiles at Arthur, full of contrived confidence, "How does this differ from any other battle?"

Arthur doesn't even bother answering, grimacing instead.

A shell goes off somewhere nearby, causing a brief trembling of the earth that they haven't really become accustomed to. Francis jumps at the sensation, his cool façade falling to pieces as he scathingly exclaims, "They are going to kill us all!" Francis turns, facing Arthur completely, and he can see a line of blood coming from Francis's ear and trailing down his face ( _he ruptured an ear drum_ ), "Their _wars_ and their _hate-_ " The words are pronounced sharply, a hand coming up to wipe roughly at the blood as he notices Arthur's stare, "-lead only to bloodshed, and these modern weapons are making things far worse than they ever were!"

Arthur can only nod in agreement, taking a swig of Merlot from the canteen Francis hands him; leave it to the Frog to have wine on the battlefield.

The troops operating the machine guns are almost out of ammunition and signal the men in their trench. In a minute or so they will go over the top and run into enemy bullets or achieve their goal (Francis had given the generals an unimpressed look when they were informed of the possible outcomes). Neither of them have taken part in warfare of this kind before, and now that Francis's nonchalant mask has fallen Arthur can tell that he is just as unnerved as Arthur is.

"They call it No Man's Land." Arthur mutters, referring to the area in between two trenches dug by men on opposing sides, "I think it should be called Dead Man's Land."

A dirtied hand runs absently through blond hair as Francis voices his disagreement, "They are no longer men when they have fallen, perhaps _that_ is why they call it No Man's Land."

The gunner calls out an incoherent order, alerting the pair that they will soon make a suicidal dash towards the German trench, and Arthur snorts, "Who are they to call it anything?"

"They are the men who will fill it: they may call it whatever they'd like to." Is Francis's solemn reply.

Things become very quiet for a moment. It is not silent, because there are the sounds of battle in the distance, but the roar of the machine gun no longer deafens them. They don't realize that the men are taking off until the soldier to the left of Arthur begins to climb over the edge of the trench; a bullet lodges itself in his eyeball before he is halfway up, causing his lifeless form to slump over.

Arthur steels himself, gripping his weapon and sprinting into the open. There are cadavers everywhere, and even more men are dying as he runs. He loses track of Francis, who is somewhere to the right of him, focusing only on the task at hand, which is reaching the German trench.

Arthur realizes that his chances of death have increased when he notes that there are no men in his immediate vicinity, _'Oh, fu-'_

Everything fades to black.

* * *

"It was the gas this time." Francis informs him with a blasé attitude, eyes on his own right arm as he finishes removing bloody wrappings.

Arthur doesn't feel much when he awakens in a hospital bed like this: after the fifth time he began to feel numb to the deaths he endured. He stares at the crimson bandages in Francis's hands, "What happened to your arm?"

"Grenade." Francis answers him, dropping the bindings on the floor (Arthur cringes at the _plop_ ). He changes the subject, shifting the attention back onto Arthur, "Why don't you follow _Matthieu's_ advice?"

The corners of his lips twist into a disgusted expression, "I _refuse_ to piss on a kerchief and hold it to my face."

Francis unhooks his wine canteen from his waistband, gulping down some of the alcohol before handing the container to Arthur, who accepts it gratefully, "You would die less often if you did." The Frenchman shrugs on his jacket, covering his healed limb, and pauses for a moment before inquiring, "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"I am." Arthur responds, completely impassive as he takes another drink, "This war is a nightmare that we are able to struggle through only because of our drinking." He shoves the canteen into Francis's hands, "I'm _tired_ of being drunk; I'm _tired_ of dying all the time."

Francis laughs sardonically, "It's not something that we can control."

That's the truest thing he's heard all day, sadly enough. And it sinks into Arthur's mind, reminding him of the harsh reality of their situation, of the decisions they can't make, of the lives they can't live (or die, for that matter).

It's too much to bear.

Arthur snatches the container from his companion, half sobbing as he ingests some of the liquor inside. The amount of self-loathing he feels is immense, but his need to drown out the world supercedes his desire to improve upon the pitiful state he is in.

"I hate this." Arthur mutters.

Azure eyes close for a moment, revealing a slew of emotions very similar to those that are flashing across Arthur's face when they open, "As do I, _lapin_."

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Arthur catches the canteen that Francis tosses to him, chugging some Chardonnay before grumbling, "Your eyes work, don't they?"

Blue eyes narrow with disapproval as Alfred, with his neatly pressed shirt and his optimistic attitude and his naïveté , snatches the flagon, turning it over and allowing the contents to splash onto the ground (Francis watches helplessly, looking terribly lost). He gives them a hard stare, remarking critically, "Getting drunk isn't going to help you win this war."

"Fuck you!" Arthur yells, already fed up with the American, "You have _no_ idea what it's like here, you arse!" He exhales shallowly, "It's the _same_ thing every day: we come out here, with mortars exploding all around and bullets whizzing through the air, and we run across a bloody field that looks _exactly_ like all the other ones-" Emerald eyes sweep hatefully across the hallowed grounds, "-and we _die_. Most times it's a bullet to the brain, but maybe if we're _lucky_ -" The acidic quality to his voice implies that he feels the exact opposite of fortunate, "-it'll be a goddamned mine or some sodding gas will do away with us." He stares at the flask in Alfred's hands, "Three years in this hell would have destroyed us without it."

Arthur falls silent, holding his face in his hands as he contemplates the possibility of this godforsaken war lasting until the day his existence ends.

Alfred is speechless, gazing upon the Europeans with a compassion that Arthur wishes he felt when this mess began in 1914: it would have been nice to have him then.

Having finally snapped out of his stupor, Francis directs his next words towards the newly arrived soldier, "You haven't died in this place yet: when you do, you'll understand."

Alfred is mowed down by an enemy machine gun minutes later.

* * *

Alfred's first death in the land of endless deaths ("Will my lands be forever stained?" Francis wonders morosely, eying the piles of bodies and the blood-soaked earth) does not alter his perspective. He explains his reasoning the day afterwards.

"Drinking is a tool used by _cowards_." His eyes condemn them, and Arthur feels a spark of ire, "You aren't making things better, you aren't getting things done, you're just escaping from reality."

Francis quirks a brow, retorting darkly, "Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yes." Alfred responds readily, a smudge of dirt on his cheek (something about that displeases Arthur: it's almost symbolic of how the war is marring Alfred's purity), "You're taking the easy road and leaving your men to fight while you get away from it all." His accusatory tone makes the older men wince as he concludes, "You're failing your people and reducing yourselves to nothing but sad drunks."

Their machine gunner stops firing, and the trio, along with the soldiers in their line, shoot off. Arthur runs in zigzags, leaping over corpses and getting closer and closer to his goal. A bullet grazes his cheek, but instead of throwing himself down and waiting for more to riddle his body, Arthur moves on, launching himself at one of the unsuspecting Germans in the enemy trench. The man yells something incoherent, struggling to toss Arthur aside, but he will not have it. Arthur slams the butt of his rifle into the soldier's face, cocking his gun while his enemy reels and shooting him between the eyes before he retaliates. All around him, his fellow soldiers are doing the same, and they quickly overtake the trench, earning a new machine gun post and plenty of ammo.

Alfred appears beside him with a blood stain on his shirt from an entry wound, giving Arthur a congratulatory clap on the shoulder and grinning widely as he exclaims, "That's the Arthur I know! I'm glad you're done wallowing in your misery."

"As am I." Arthur mutters, not wanting to convey happiness in such an awful place, but smiling regardless, "Thank you."

Alfred nods once, slinging his rifle over his shoulder as he confesses, "I never saw you drunk before all of this." Alfred gestures around them, "Now that I have, I wish I hadn't."

Creases form on Alfred's forehead at that, something about Alfred's words troubling him: was his drinking making Alfred unhappy?

"You _will_ be buying me a new bottle of Chardonnay when this is over, Alfred." Francis informs Alfred haughtily, interrupting Arthur's train of thought. He looks a bit battered, a large splotch of blood on his side, but Arthur can see that he is not gravely wounded.

Arthur can't believe that _Francis_ sees an end in sight, but it seems that Alfred's presence does that to people: it gives them hope.

 _'Like a light in the dark.'_ He thinks.

* * *

"I can't believe it's over." Because he honestly _can't._ Everything seems too surreal to Arthur: he can't help but feel as if this is a cruelly vivid dream.

Alfred laughs jovially, slinging an arm carelessly around Arthur's shoulders as he confirms, "Well, it is; stop doubting it and celebrate!"

And Arthur doesn't know what it is, maybe the joy, perhaps he's just expressing his gratitude (it could be neither, he could be thinking of excuses), but he leans up, tilts his head, and presses his lips against Alfred's.

Alfred's lips feel a bit dry, but they're warm and taste like candy and they're _Alfred_ 's, so Arthur decides he doesn't mind. After a few seconds, though, he realizes that Alfred isn't responding at all, so he pulls away, slightly flushed from embarrassment.

Arthur stands abruptly, shrugging off Alfred's arm and apologizing before hurrying inside, eager to get out of this uncomfortable situation. He moves quickly through the crowd, emerald eyes searching out a certain individual. Once spotted, Arthur rushes over to his friend, trying not to look completely mortified.

"What have you gotten yourself into now, _lapin_?" Francis drawls, draped over the arm of a couch with a decanter of Chardonnay (the bottle was paid for by a certain American) in hand. A perverse grin stretches across his face as he continues suggestively, "Does it involve our _cher Am_ _é_ _ricain_?"

Arthur flops down beside the Frenchman, replying sulkily, "Sod off."

Francis looks delighted, his romanticism showing itself as he gushes excitedly, " _Ah,_ _c'est magnifique!_ I was worried that you would ignore your feelings for him."

"What feelings?" Arthur murmurs, glaring at the partygoers who happen to glance in his direction.

Francis fixes him with a serious look, "You cannot deny what you feel for him, _Angleterre:_ there's been something between you for years now."

Has he really felt this way about Alfred for so long? Arthur hadn't even noticed that he felt something romantic for his former charge until just minutes ago; it still seems horribly absurd.

Arthur turns to face his oldest friend, his shoulders sagging as he reveals, "I kissed him: he didn't respond, so I fled."

Smile dropping, Francis wordlessly offers him the wine glass.

Arthur accepts.

* * *

It certainly isn't the wisest decision to make, but Arthur goes for the whiskey regardless.

London (along with other cities across his country) is being bombarded by those fucking Germans and their godforsaken planes; the Blitz has not been very kind to him. He's on fire, an inferno is raging within him and his heart is being cooked on a spit. It's far worse than any pain he has ever experienced and Arthur, shaken by the attacks, reverts to his old ways.

He still feels the agony, and the wails of the air raid sirens blare in his ears, but everything is a bit _muffled_ , so that's just swell. It's not gone, but it's better, and to Arthur, who is terribly alone at this point, there is no other option: without the aid of his liquor he would have no buffer.

It happens _night_ after _night_.

He used to scream; he used to _scream_ and _writhe_ and _cry_ , but it's been so long that he _can't_ anymore. Instead, Arthur finds a secluded corner of the bomb shelter closest to his home, bundles himself up in blankets, and drinks until there's nothing but a dull ache in his chest.

It's awful and he knows it.

Arthur understands what he looks like to his people: a loon, a homeless man, a _drunk_.

Perhaps that's what he is; as long as it makes his existence tolerable, he doesn't mind that they think so poorly of him.

At least that's what he tells himself.

* * *

Arthur wants to kiss Alfred again when the American joins the war, but he very clearly recalls what happened the last time he did that and ignores the urge. That aside, it would hardly be appropriate, considering the conditions under which Alfred enters the conflict.

A pleased expression works itself onto Arthur's face of its own accord as he stands with Alfred after a meeting held between their bosses, _'With Alfred here, we actually have a chance.'_

"Are you _happy_?" Alfred demands, looking highly offended and a bit wounded as he stares at Arthur.

Arthur inwardly curses himself for being unable to hide his gladness, professing quietly, "Well…yes." Arthur continues quickly, speaking before Alfred can jump to conclusions, "Not that you were attacked: what happened to your men was a horrible thing and foul play on Japan's part." A stormy look flashes across Alfred's face, both nations looking at his injured leg, "I'm just…relieved."

"Relieved?" Alfred repeats skeptically, lowering himself carefully onto a chair.

Arthur mimics him, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly before elaborating, "I've been alone in this for quite some time: Francis fell recently, Russia's busy in the east, and everyone else is under Germany's control or neutral." A glazed look enters Arthur's eyes as he describes, "I had been bombed relentlessly by that bloody Kraut for so long that the nights were blending together; I was losing hope, and quickly." Arthur locks eyes with Alfred, who is unsuitably grave, and finishes, "And then you joined."

"I'm sorry." Alfred says faintly, eyes lingering on Arthur's gaunt face, "I shouldn't have left you to suffer."

Waving away his apology, Arthur replies, "I understand: you didn't want to sacrifice your men for a war that didn't even concern you."

Alfred watches him for another long moment, briefly fiddling with his uniform before meeting Arthur's eyes and answering earnestly, " _You_ concern me."

Dumbfounded, Arthur opens his mouth in an attempt to reply, but is interrupted by the call of Alfred's name; it is, unmistakably, the voice of the American's leader, so he _must_ go.

Alfred smiles a bit embarrassedly, cheeks tinted pink, and struggles briefly to rise from his seat before heaving himself out of the chair and limping outside with a quiet farewell.

Arthur stares bemusedly at the space that Alfred just occupied and wonders if he is just imagining things; it is at times like this that he misses Francis more than ever.

It won't matter soon: with Alfred's help, he is going to liberate the territories under Axis control.

* * *

"We did it!" Arthur embraces the American, laughing joyously as Alfred returns the gesture with just as much energy, "It's finally over!" He pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he examines Alfred, who is oddly quiet, "Shouldn't you be rejoicing loudly?"

The man with eyes like the sky shrugs, arms still looped around Arthur's waist (Francis, who has finished a third of the best bottle of wine he could locate, leers at them from across the room; Arthur can't bring himself to care), "I have another war to win."

Arthur's smile wavers, a remorseful look in his eyes as he murmurs, "Isn't this a bit painful? We've finished our war here but you have to go overseas to end yet another one." Alfred shakes his head, smiling reassuringly as he begins to sway side to side, leading Arthur in a simple dance. Arthur is a bit flustered, but complies, remarking quietly, "You should let go soon: people will assume that we're a couple."

Alfred doesn't seem very perturbed, blue eyes bright as he replies, "So let them." His eyes drift towards Arthur's lips, a slightly nervous twinge to his voice as he asks, "What would you do if I kissed you right now?"

Arthur comes to a halt, a look of utter disbelief painting his features, "If you kissed me?"

Alfred nods, blue eyes intent on Arthur's face as he breathes, "Yes."

"I-" Arthur swallows heavily, biting his lower lip before responding faintly, "I suppose you'd have to try it and find out."

Alfred pulls Arthur even closer to him, their bodies flush against each other, and seals their lips together. Arthur's eyes fall closed, his arms moving up to wind themselves around Alfred's neck. Alfred's tongue prods lightly at the seal of his mouth, entering smoothly when Arthur parts his lips, and explores the moist cavern, sweeping across the roof of his mouth twice before entangling itself with Arthur's tongue. Arthur moans, not caring who may be watching, and reciprocates the action.

A wolf-whistle, courtesy of a certain Australian, compels them to separate, both panting a bit from the release of a considerable amount of tension between them.

"Well..." Alfred grins, leaning his forehead against Arthur's, "That was a better answer than I expected."

Arthur rolls his eyes, unable to contain his delight as he retorts, "I kissed you first, git."

* * *

Arthur rushes to the United States as soon as he is informed of Alfred's return. It has been three days since Arthur's arrival, and still Alfred has not spoken a word, only trudging around his home with a self-deprecating expression in place.

It is with great surprise that Arthur registers the first words Alfred has spoken during his entire stay, although Arthur can't exactly say that he didn't suspect that _this_ was the cause of his despair.

"I ended it." Alfred states, guilt and self-loathing coating his words, "I ended the war and I ended the lives of countless civilians."

Arthur shoots his lover a troubled look, grabbing one of Alfred's hands and interlacing their fingers as he attempts to sooth him, "It was the better alternative, Alfred: far more people would have died if you had gone with an invasion instead."

Arthur's words don't seem to affect him, and Alfred goes on, "I'm a murderer: it's my fault that they died." His face darkens, "I used _two_ ; I knew what they were capable of, but I used _two_."

Arthur shakes his head, "No one really knew what they were capable of."

"I don't deserve you." Alfred says suddenly, his eyes full of distress, "I don't _deserve_ to have someone."

Glaring fiercely at Alfred, Arthur snaps, " _Enough_." Alfred is soundless, his attention on Arthur, "You are one of the best people I know, if not _the_ best, and I _know_ that you would never intentionally harm those people: it's _not_ your fault, Alfred."

"How do you know that I'm so good, huh?" Alfred asks, challenging Arthur, "How can you be so sure that I'm _not_ the bad guy?"

" _Because_!" Arthur cries exasperatedly, "Because _you're_ the one who saved me, because _you're_ the one who helped me get over my drinking problem, because-" He squeezes Alfred's hand tightly, completing his sentence in little more than a whisper, "-you're the hero."

Alfred says nothing for a few seconds, blue eyes trained on Arthur's face as he processes what has just been said to him, and then, "I love you."

Arthur tenses, not having expected anything of the sort, "What?"

He doesn't seem to have a problem repeating it, and does so, this time in a stronger voice, "I love you."

It occurs to Arthur then, that in all his time on this earth no one has ever _directly_ said those three words to him and that he may have a hard time responding to the confession. After floundering for a few moments, he decides to ensure that Alfred is in a right state of mind before saying anything in response: Arthur doesn't want a declaration of love (he realizes then that he's been waiting for one) if it's influenced by an unhealthy train of thought.

"Do you still think that it was your fault?" Arthur inquires seriously, watching for any sign of insincerity.

Alfred lets out a shuddering breath, but manages a small, "No."

He looks for any sign that Alfred is lying, but finds none.

"I love you." Alfred says again, looking expectantly at Arthur.

Arthur stares at their linked hands, his eyes wandering to Alfred's unmistakably honest face as he considers all that they've been through together: wars, recoveries, negotiations, civil wars. Good times and bad, hadn't Alfred always wished him the best? Hadn't he always helped Arthur? Hadn't he always been the only one Arthur could trust?

Arthur takes a deep breath, emerald meeting sky blue as he replies, "I love you too."

The last time he drank was on December 6th, 1941.

He doesn't look back.


End file.
